connecting point
by k-booey
Summary: Klaus paints what he sees and doesn't stop until all the space amongst the sporadic scribbles have been filled in and their art has mingled together- the innocent and the spoiled. (transferred from OKBooey31-Archived)


**[A/N: Nothing new to see here. Just a transfer I wanted on this profile instead of the old one. Once again, Klaus painting in the spaces of his child's scribbles is based on an end of year gift my mother (a preschool teacher) received from one of her kids a couple of years ago. It's such a cool thing, I can't even do it justice in writing this.]**

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Originals.**

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_"the aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance"  
~Aristotle_

He didn't mean to distance himself, he really didn't. But Klaus couldn't help it. He'd faced certain death but being in the vicinity of the toddler frightened him more than anything in the world. He balked whenever he saw the child who's mother's light ash brown hair painted Klaus' own curly locks; the child who had bright and wide, expressive blue eyes, a button nose much like his own, and dimples that could light up an entire room adorning the slim face that could only be Hayley's.

So he watched from afar with a small smile tugging the corners of his mouth upwards as a strange, warming feeling that he couldn't quite understand expanded in his chest as his one-and-a-half year old son played and grew with such innocent curiosity that it rendered Klaus speechless as to how, exactly, he of all people could have created something so pure and untainted. Klaus would watch as everyone but him- Elijah, Rebekah, Sophie, and Hayley- interacted with his son, hands on- tickling him, rocking him to sleep, feeding him, or (as Elijah liked to do) reading to him.

It wasn't that Klaus was never around, he was. The boy knew who his father was, could recognize Klaus' voice in a heartbeat, and would even grace him with a warm, bright smile that the hybrid couldn't help but return in some manner- whether it was full or just the smallest of upwards flickers of his lips. It wasn't that he, somehow, loved his son- _his _son. It was just that Klaus struggled to connect with him unlike the others that were part of the toddler's life.

How could he, the definition of a despicable monster with an ocean of blood on his hands- cold and heartless, something his, let alone any, child should tremble in fear at the mere mention of- risk scarring something so pure…so painfully yet beautifully innocent? Could he risk becoming the very thing he had despised?

He couldn't. Not even Klaus, perhaps the greatest of all risk takers, could bring himself to do it. He didn't want his son to live his life in fear of his father, much like Mikael had done to him.

So, he watched from afar, leaning against the doorframe of the living room in their plantation house with a soft, fond smirk as Rebekah sat in the floor smiling at the toddler whom was leaning over the coffee table, intently focusing on the piece of paper with a pen in his hand, threatening to scream his head off whenever Hayley began to pry it away from him to put his pajamas on. It was a battle they struggled with every night- particularly when they were nearing a full moon. And although never exactly confirmed, Klaus figured it had everything to do with the boy's werewolf gene, seemingly much stronger than other children born to werewolves solely because of Klaus.

It was only after both Rebekah and Hayley had walked past him, Jax (Jackson Henrik Maxwell-Mikaelson, named for Hayley's real father) on the later's hip, telling the wailing child to say 'night-night' to daddy as they went, that Klaus ventured into the living room and sat down on the couch. With a soft smile, he picked up the white paper with several blue scribbles littering the page and simply stared at it.

"Jackson enjoys drawing. He does so frequently." Klaus turned to see Elijah leaning over the back of the couch, eyes wandering over the piece held in Klaus' large hands. "Much like you. He's a lot like you, brother."

The hybrid stayed quiet and turned back to the drawing, eyes following the blue lines with care.

"You can't ignore him forever, Niklaus," Elijah said solemnly.

"I don't ignore him."

"But you don't interact with him either. At least not very often."

"It's better that way. For him." _You all are so much better for this than me_.

Elijah laughs, hollow and deflated, sorry almost. "You're his father and you of all people should know that's a role that no one else can fill for him."

Klaus exhaled loudly in exasperation. Elijah wouldn't understand. Elijah _couldn't_ understand."You mock what you don't understand, brother."

The older male clasps Klaus' shoulder and squeezes affectionately, letting the hybrid know he meant no harm with his comments, only to enlighten, give him some food for thought as it were. "As do you, Niklaus." And with one last squeeze, Elijah leaves the room and Klaus with his sage advice lingering on the air.

The words float around in his head as do the tired whimpers of Jackson fighting a losing battle against sleep while Hayley hums quietly, pacing back and forth in the nursery as Klaus continues to trace the scribbles with his eyes, then his fingers- dragging across the page with a feather-light touch.

He's an artist- whether it be murder or a canvas, blood and some kind of torture device or paint and charcoal as his medium. It's one of his passions to make something out of nothing, it's a concept he's built his entire existence around so you can't blame him for seeing things in the random scribbles as he looks. There are shapes, the contours of a face, a landscape and they're all intertwined with his son's mess of lines.

With creased brows and a contemplative look, Klaus rose from the sofa, still studying Jax's drawing and walks out, towards his studio. He selects a brush, mixes colors and, leaving Jax's lines untouched, begins to make his own mark on the paper- embellishing them to give them a more three dimensional look and filling in spaces. Greens, blues, yellows, with a smidgen of pink. Blacks and browns and purples.

Klaus paints what he sees and doesn't stop until all the space amongst the sporadic scribbles has been filled in and their art has mingled together- the innocent and the spoiled.

And it doesn't stop.

The hybrid continues to do this, paint what he sees in his son's art and the pages are scattered about the plantation house- some hanging on the refrigerator, others litter the desk in Klaus' study, one hangs above his bed and another in the nursery.

But it's different. Now they sit at the table leaning over the surface- Klaus' long legs tucked underneath him with Jax standing at his side- or appraise the canvas- Jax on Klaus' hip- _together_.

Jax scribbles and Klaus paints. And sometimes, when he's feeling brave, Klaus turns the paintbrush over to the toddler.

He still keeps a bit of distance, he's still hesitant and slow, ever so gentle and careful but he's found a part of his son that he can taint, that he can make his own mark on while leaving an everlasting impression on his son.


End file.
